One day, about this time, Kent was walking home from the Museum. His spirits had by no means lightened since his conversation with Wither, and he strode along moodily, trying to fix his attention on the arrangement of that evening's portion of the great work. He had gone back to it resolutely and doggedly, and was conscious that it was progressing not badly, but at the same time he had a troubling sense that he was treating it less as an aim than as a cure for existence. Fairfax, the doctor, told him he was overdoing himself, that the strain of double work was telling, advised total idleness, and if possible a change of air. Kent gave the prescription a trial, and went down to the Isle of Wight for a week-end, where he tramped himself utterly tired during the day and bored himself exquisitely during the evening. Then he came back rather worse than when he went. No; he was suffering from change, and not from the want of it.

London was in a pitiable condition. It had snowed, then thawed into slush, and now a hard black frost had set in, rendering the roadways like glass. Already during his walk home Kent had seen four horses down. On the first two occasions he had lent a helping hand. After that it began to grow monotonous, and he hurried past the accidents, anxious to get home out of the sullen iron-bound streets. At the corner of Sloane Square and the King's Road he saw a familiar girlish figure coming towards him. It was Winifred, her dark cheeks glowing with the exercise of walking; but he noticed a look of trouble in her eyes.

“I am so glad to have met you, Mr. Kent,” she said; “I want to speak to you. Can you walk a little way with me?”

“Of course, as long as you like. What is the matter? You are not yourself.”

“No. I have been upset, so upset; you would hardly think it. Come and I will tell you.”

They crossed the road and went on down Lower Sloane Street.

“It's about Jack—Jack, the model, you remember. He has been run over! Oh, it's horrible!”

“And you are going to him?” asked Kent, noticing for the first time a little basket hanging over her arm. “Give me that,” he added, taking the basket, which she out of habit surrendered to him. “And these are jellies and what not for him?”

“Yes. Will you come with me and see him, see what can be done for him, rather? His mother is so harsh, so stupid.”

“How did you come to hear of the accident?”

Winifred's cheek paled a little and she turned her head from him.

“I saw it myself. Oh, I shall never, never forget it! just outside Sloane Square station; I was coming home, yesterday. The ground was just as slippery as it is now. Oh, how can I tell you! It makes me shudder to think of it!”

“Take your time,” said Kent good-naturedly.

She was silent for a few steps. Then, nerving herself, she went on with more coherence.

“He was just in front of me when I came out, and as he saw me he ran away, frightened—like a little scared animal; you know his ways. And crossing the road, not looking where he was going, he turned his head round as if to see I was not following him, and then he slipped—oh-h! under the hoofs of a horse—in a hansom. And the driver tried to pull up sharp, and the horse came down too—on top of Jack!”

“Good God!” said Kent.

“A crowd at once collected. I rushed through—I must have screamed a little and cried that I knew him, for the people made way for me. It all seemed like a horrid dream. I can't tell what happened, except that I found myself kneeling on the ground with the poor little mite's head on my lap. Then someone was talking to me, who said he was a doctor, and began to examine the boy's injuries.”

“Is he badly hurt?”

“The doctor does not know yet. No bones are broken—the injuries are internal.”

“Is he at the hospital?”

“No. At his own home. I gave them the address, and told them his mother would care for him—why, I don't know. And then they got a stretcher from the police-station and carried him home, and I went with them and broke it to his mother. But, oh! Mr. Kent, almost the most awful part of it is that it seems as if I was the cause of it.”

“Nonsense, my dear child,” said Kent in rough earnestness.

“Oh, yes, it is. If it hadn't been for me he would not have run across the road in a fright. Oh! I can see it now—the horse plunging, his hoofs over the child—and then the collapse, and the child hidden under the horse!”

They turned down a side street and then another, sinking into the squalour that still remains in that vague river district between Pimlico Pier and Milbank.

“Poor little chap! Punishment has come at last,” said Kent. “It has a kind of way of doing so. What does Clytie think of it? Have you told her?”

“I only wrote to her yesterday. This morning I got a telegram. I think I have it with me. It is Clytie all over!”

She opened the purse she was carrying inside her muff and drew from it a crumpled telegram. It ran:

Dreadfully distressed. Get the best of everything, nurse, doctor. Find money to go on with in drawer at once. I must feel that I am doing something. Will write.

“Yes, it is like her,” said Kent, with a smile, as he handed it back to her.

“I wonder whether you would mind doing something for me, Mr. Kent?” said Winnie after a pause. “Get the money out of Clytie's drawer for me. I have been so busy all day. Reggie is in bed with a bad cold and the house is upside down—and of course I have to come here. You see, I must use the money, or else Clytie would be hurt; it seems to me to be a matter of conscience.”

“Or a matter of Clytie's telling you?” said Kent.

“Well, perhaps it's that. One always does what Clytie says. So do you, Mr. Kent. Anyhow, I should like to have the money for the sake of obeying her wishes. Could you get it for me?”

“Of course, if you will tell me how.”

“Oh, that's easy. I have the key of her secretaire in my purse. She keeps her cash-box there. You can let me have it as it is. Will you?”

“Of course. I will bring it round to-night.”

The early winter twilight had fallen and scared shivering indoors the brood of unwashed children that possess these gray, sordid streets. Here and there women stood at the doors, their hands folded in their aprons, with little ones clinging to their skirts, chaffering with a costermonger, or exchanging shrill confidences with a neighbour. Most of the front parlours on the ground floor were lightless, with drawn blinds. Here and there a public-house beer-can gleamed white upon the railing spikes. Workmen lurched heavily along, now and then followed by shawled, bare-armed wives, vituperative. For it was Saturday afternoon, when the businesslike wife looks after her husband. Here and there from a suddenly opened doorway came the smell of many weeks' cooking. The poorer classes despise fresh air in their rooms—perhaps because they get it for nothing.

Winifred stopped with Kent at a dark-fronted, dingy house, the facsimile of the forty other houses in the dingy row and of the forty opposite across the narrow roadway. A little girl answered her knock.

“Mrs. Burmester in, my dear? Come, Mr. Kent, if you don't mind. I know the way.”

Kent followed her up two flights of stairs, and into Mrs. Burmester's room. It was less squalid than he had imagined. A fire was burning in the grate, with a saucepan simmering. There were fairly substantial chairs, a table, and the ragged remains of a carpet. On a big bed by the side of the wall, not uncomfortable-looking nor unclean, lay Jack, tossing his wild elf head in delirium. By the side of the bed sat a nurse, whom the doctor had sent. Mrs. Burmester was spreading out the tea-things on the table. Her red, heavy face brightened momentarily when Winnie entered.

“How is he now?”

“Oh, mortal bad, miss. He hasn't had his senses all day.”

“And the doctor—does he say anything?”

“He said he would like a consultation,” replied the nurse, “but he did not know exactly whom to refer to.”

“Why, to me, of course!” replied Winnie. “He knows my name and address. If you see him before I do, say I authorise him to do anything he thinks right. We are willing to—that is, he need not be hindered by questions of expense.”

Winnie turned to Mrs. Burmester with the basket, which she had taken from Kent's hand. The mother thanked her, almost monosyllabically. She was too dull for emotions of any kind. Kent watched her with interest, for Clytie had often spoken of her, hinting at her own puzzle.

There was a lull in Jack's ravings as Winifred and Kent stood over the bed looking at him. The expression of sullen ferocity had gone from his face, which now seemed refined and gentle. He smiled at Winifred, not recognising her, murmured something incoherent about arithmetic. His mind had wandered back to his earlier school-days. He had been fond of a teacher there, his mother explained. Her name was Miss Jones. She wished he was fond of anybody now. He was a sore trial to her. The floodgates of dull speech were opened and a slow stream of joyless anecdote poured forth—a jeremiad of Jack's iniquities. Winnie stopped her gently.

“We must not think of that now, Mrs. Burmester,” she said. “We have to get him round again; and then we will see whether we can't make a good boy of him for you.”

“Ah! You won't do that. He is too much like his father.”

They stayed a little longer, talking. Then they went, as Winifred had to be back among her own family responsibilities.

“By the way,” said Kent as they were walking homewards, “this must be Treherne's parish—in fact, I am sure of it. Has it not struck you?”

“No, it never occurred to me.”

“Well, he ought to know. I'll send him a line. He knows all about this sort of thing.”

He walked with her as far as the door of her own house. There she gave him the key of Clytie's secretaire. Mrs. Gurkins kept the room key. He left her and turned homewards, striding along rather fast, eager to execute Clytie's commission. He was filled with a foolish pleasure at her impulsive telegram; touched also at Winifred's implicit obedience and confidence.

“She's a queen among women!”

The silly phrase passed through his mind and he caught himself repeating it with his lips, half aloud.

“Bosh!” he added with some impatience. And he stopped to look in at a shop-window to divert his mind. It was a boot-shop. He ran his eye mechanically over the rows of commonplace, cheap boots, and then it fell upon a little pair of tan shoes, with broad silk laces. Before he realised how his mind was working, a picture rose before him of Clytie wearing a similar pair during the summer trip abroad. He remembered bending down one day when a knot had slipped and retying it for her.

“I am becoming a positive ass!” he said to himself, with an angry jerk away from the window. Then he redoubled his pace, as if in defiance, but the silly phrase rang in his ears:

“She's a queen among women!”

He obtained the key from Mrs. Gurkins, and entered the tenantless room. The blinds were down, the curtains undrawn. It was just dark. He lit the piano candles and looked about him. How dreary the room seemed! The fireless grate, the coverless table (the cloth had been thriftily put away by Mrs. Gurkins), the absence of the feminine litter with which Clytie was wont to strew the room—all made his heart sink for a moment beneath the weight of a great longing. He remembered, too, the room by that dim light—on the evening of Clytie's submission. He saw her again lift her arms to unpin her hat from behind, the proud young figure standing out free as she looked at him half playfully, half seriously, her ripe, full lips parted in a smile. His breath came quickly as a flood of self-knowledge swept over him. He had felt puzzled then—at vague inarticulate desires. Now they were gathering a terribly real, objective shape. He grew dizzy, hot and cold, half terrified at himself.

With shaking fingers he fitted the key in the lock of the secretaire. In the drawer was a heterogeneous collection of odds and ends—letters, keys, ball-programmes, receipted bills—which he had to thrust aside so as to withdraw the little japanned cash-box. As he lifted it out a handkerchief came with it, caught by its lace edge, and after dangling a little fell at his feet. He picked it up, kept it in his hand, soothed at the softness. A faint odour of perfume rose from it, subtle and delicate—the well-known perfume that Clytie always used. It was like an emanation from herself. It grew over his highly strung senses like a breath of her own personality, sweet, intoxicating, overpowering. His brain swam. With a kind of groan he staggered to the sofa, threw himself upon it, burying his face in the little handkerchief, kissing it madly.

Now all was clear, waves of lightning flashing the truth through him. He loved her, passionately, desired her with a passion all the fiercer for its long restraint. Yet he could not think coherently. One thought, one utter realisation, overpowered all others. At last this great surging sex-tumult was sweeping through his veins.

“Oh, my God, I love her! Oh, my God, I love her!” That was all that he could groan out as he lay upon the sofa.

The creak of the door made him start up. On the threshold stood one of Mrs. Gurkins's curly-headed little children. She looked for a moment, rather frightened, at his haggard face, and then ran away. Thus aroused to a sense of external things, he locked up the secretaire and went out, taking the cash-box and handkerchief with him.

On the slab outside his rooms he found a letter in Clytie's familiar handwriting. He went into his room, and sitting down before his writing space, spread the letter out before him. It ran as follows:

My Dear Friend Kent:

If you ask me why I have not written to you for such a long time, I must shrink within my shell of femininity and refuse to give you reasons. For I have them, and they are compounded from a recipe handed down from Mother Eve. Well, I write to you now because I must. That reason I make you a present of.

I want to be in town again, in the King's Road, and to see you by the fireside, ready to be asked questions and to answer them, and to comfort your erratic friend Clytie with your kindliness and wisdom. She is looked upon as a bad girl here, and pines for someone who thinks her human, and who also thinks her art human, and can help her in it.

Listen, now; I have got the subject at last; it is eating my heart out almost, I have to keep it hidden so to myself. I must tell you—for the sake's sake. “Faustina as a young, innocent girl, with the foreshadowings of passion on her face.” There! Now you know. What do you think of it?

Do you remember my depression at Dinan? Well, I think it was there I got the conception. I can't tell you more. But it is haunting me. I feel what I want to do, but I can't get a face. What shall I do? Tell me. You know, dear Kent, in our talks, we have often disregarded principles that move the world pretty potently. But as an artist I am bound to recognise the part that passion plays in the tragedy of things.

“These things are life:

And life, some think, is worthy of the Muse,”

as Meredith says in “Modern Love.” (Do you remember our reading it together?)

I can't write properly about it. I long for a talk with you. I shall break away soon and come for it. So be prepared with all your sympathy.

Do you miss me just a little bit? I often fancy my perverseness must give a little wholesome irritation to your life, and you are very good not to mind it. I always seem to be coming to you for help and sympathy. When can I ever do anything for you? You must tell me, dear friend, when the time comes.

I should like to tell you to give Winnie a kiss for me, but that is idiotic, isn't it? Yet you know what I mean. See that the dear child is not wearing herself out. There! I am asking you to do something else for me. Do write a long letter, full of yourself, with just a paragraph about the needs, artistic and otherwise, of

Your friend,

C. D.

Kent took some time to read this. The letters swam a little before his eyes. Then he laid his head upon his arms and thought, in dumb agony. Clytie's letter, sisterly and trustful, soothed and goaded him at once. “The part that passion plays in the tragedy of things!” God! Had a fleeting thought never struck her what a part it might play in their lives' tragedy? How could he answer that letter, addressed to a friend, received by a lover in the hot flush of newly awakened realisation? How could he meet her bright, frank look with this burning demon within him? It was base, horrible. His mind wandered to a German print he had seen somewhere, a goat-footed satyr kneeling and leering at Psyche. He shuddered.

It is given but to few men to know this terror of love: only to those who, like Kent, have hitherto expended vast animal and moral energies in non-sexual enthusiasms, and have rebelled with almost passionate repulsion against the assertion of the sexual principle. To some men love dawns like a sweet, fair star—the storm comes later on. To such as Kent it comes in terrific forked lightnings and crash of thunder, overwhelming the soul with terror. To Kent's excited fancy it seemed that the Beast, such as Wither had spoken of, had entered into him. He had betrayed the compact of friendship, her sisterly trust in him. Fool that he had been! Why had he not recognised it before? Now all was over between them. The future seemed nothing but black, rolling darkness.

The solitary gas-jet that he had lit on entering flared high and strident over the mantelpiece above the blackening fire, and Kent lay with his hands on his arms, his morbid brain at death-grapple with love, he himself heedful of nothing external—not even of a gay whistle and a quick, springing tread on the uncarpeted stairs. The door burst suddenly open.

“Come out, you fusty old hermit——”

Then Wither stopped. Kent raised a drawn, rather ghastly face and stared at him stupidly.

“My dear old chap, in the name of Heaven, what's the matter?” cried Wither, putting down his hat and stick and coming towards him.

“Oh, nothing!” said Kent, who pulled himself together with an effort, rose, and broke into a forced laugh.

Wither looked at him steadily while he slowly drew off his gloves.

“That's nonsense!” he said quietly.

Then his sharp glance fell on the little crumpled handkerchief that lay beside the open letter on the table. His quick sense, aided by certain opinions he had formed long since, grasped the main feature of the situation.

He went over to where Kent was standing by the fireplace, and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Never mind, dear old man, it will all come right.”

“It will never come right,” groaned Kent absently.

“It must. She must care for you in time.”

“How do you know what I am thinking of?” Kent burst out rather fiercely.

“I guessed. Besides—the handkerchief. It is not your own. Yours are a little more businesslike.”

“Oh, well!” said Kent a little huskily, and throwing his head back with a gesture of impatience, “I can't hide it. What would be the good? I have found out that she is a friend no longer, that what you were saying the other night is true—and I feel a brute! My God, what a brute I feel!”

Wither's mental balance was for a moment upset. He righted it after a moment with considerations of his friend's character. In many fragile, nervous bodies there is a delicacy of perception which often remains all the keener when protected by a shell of cynicism.

“You want to be reasoned with gently, friend John,” he said. “You must not feel a brute when you love a woman as a man like you can love. It's the best and holiest thing on God's earth, believe me.”

“But, Teddy, she is so frank, so trustful, so proud of our friendship—it can never be the same again—if I should tell her, she would hate me——”

“You can bet your life she wouldn't!” murmured Wither.

“She would go out of my life in indignation, and she would be right,” Kent went on. “She would scorn me for the feelings that I know now I have had all along for 'her. No; it is all over, all over. I can't meet her again. I think I shall go mad! I shall throw up everything and go away.”

“You dear, foolish old chap,” said Wither, “can't you see that very little would make her in love with you, if she is not so already? Why should you two not get married?”

“I marry!” gasped Kent, as if struck by a new idea. “I ask Clytie Davenant, with her beauty and intellect and genius, to come and share—this! Clytie Davenant marry me! Why, the idea is ludicrous—preposterous!”

“If I were she, I should not think so,” said Wither affectionately.

Kent shook his head gloomily, and kicked the smouldering coal into a fitful blaze.

“No. Until she shows me unmistakably—which can be never—that she cares for me in that way, I would sooner bite my tongue out than tell her.”

“Until she asks you to marry her, in fact! John Kent, you are two years older than I am, and three times as big. But verily you are a little child! And if you weren't,” he added impulsively, with a soft glitter in his elfin eyes, “you would not be the lovable old chap that you are! Good-bye!”

“Oh, stay a little, Teddy!” cried Kent. “I'm not much company, but I——”

“Come round with me and have some dinner, then,” interrupted Wither. “It will occupy your body—if not your mind. And it will be better for you than the bottled beer and sardines which you usually feast upon. I shall be quite alone and you can do some work for me.”

“All right!” replied Kent dejectedly. “It does not matter what I do.”

Wither turned his face to the fire, while Kent prepared to go out. When he turned round Kent was holding the cash-box in his hand. The handkerchief and letter were gone from the table, and Wither smiled inwardly. He had himself disposed of many such trifles in a similar way. Men are very much alike in several matters.